


Hunters Anonymous

by O4amuse



Series: Five Little Pigs [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Post-Season/Series 08, Soul Bond, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 09:30:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5738488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/O4amuse/pseuds/O4amuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five hunters in a bunker. Five addicts. What do our heroes hunger for, and just how self-destructive is it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I have no personal experience of addiction. These stories are written purely on the basis of research. My sincere apologies for any mistakes or incorrect assumptions. They are intended purely as character studies, not a commentary on addicts.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Can you even get drunk any more? It's sort of like drinking a vitamin for you, right?"

They call it ‘Hunter’s Helper’ for a reason. The crap me and Sam have handled, well, you’d want a little something from time to time. I ain’t addicted, though. I don’t need it. Don’t get, like, shakes or whatever if I go without. I just like it. Whiskey, for preference, though the Men of Letters had some fine-ass port stashed at the back of a cupboard. I never learned much about wine - you don’t go into a highway dive, ask for a glass of Merlot, and expect to keep all your teeth - but this stuff’s pretty smooth.

I know Sammy don’t like it. He reckons it’s a symptom of repression, or some shit. I drink instead of talking. Don’t take a genius to figure that out, but talking never fixed much, far as I could tell. Not saying drink fixed much either, come to that, but at least you don’t care for a while. That’s gotta be better’n hurting 24/7, right?

But I’m easing up on the sauce, these days. Since Sammy did that whole soul thing - and you better believe I gave him hell for that, after - I can feel it when he gets pissed off or upset, especially with me. Now, don’t you think for one second that means I go easy on him. I still got a duty as a big brother to yank his chain now and then. But there’s a difference between teasing and distressing. So yeah… more coffee, less booze.

Didn’t think I was the addictive type, to be honest. I was always real clear on what I could and couldn’t have, and there was an end to it. ‘Sides, hunting drunk is a sure-fire way to send everything Pete Tong and I couldn’t risk Sam’s safety like that. But it turns out I’m every bit the addict. Any length of time apart leaves me jumpy as all hell, and way more likely to lead with my fists.

I ain’t addicted to the drink. Never was. I’m addicted to Sammy.

He was always the big thing I couldn’t have. I was used to that. Let him go, didn’t I? And never disturbed him at Stanford ‘til I was desperate about Dad. Or at least, I’d convinced myself it was desperate, that there were valid reasons not to go to Bobby or Pastor Jim for help. I can still remember the rush, after three years of abstinence. What it felt like to touch his skin, to wrestle him in the dark, throw him to the floor under me. And then he rolled and I was under him, and I knew I was in trouble. Knew I had to let him go after the weekend or there’d be no peace for me, not ever again. And I did. I drove away.

Lasted all of five minutes. How’s that for addiction? Good thing too, or he’d’ve burned just like Jessica. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe Azazel would’ve stepped in, who knows.

Swore I’d never touch him, though. Being together was enough. Sometimes I’d get dizzy on the smell of him in the car, or the motel room. Sometimes, when I was tired, I wanted to take hold so bad my hands shook. That’s when I drank. It dulled everything.

That 'no touching' rule was another promise got broken, but at least he started it. These days, half the time I think I’m high. Waking up with his arms wrapped round my chest like a ginormous monkey, and I feel so good I can’t breathe properly… doesn’t that sound like some kinda opium dream?

Look, if this all turns out to be another djinn hallucination, I don’t wanna know. Ignorance is bliss, right? Leave me to drain dry, if it means I get to have Sam. Get to stretch him out under me, taste him, hear him moan my name. Get to burn up in his heat. I need him.

Don't get me wrong, it’s not like I’m pro incest in general or anything. But the stuff we’ve done over the years? Who the fuck else is gonna understand? Besides, we’re soulmates. Cas said that beat any other kind of relationship. So it’s fine. Better than fine.

You got no fucking right to judge, anyway.


	2. The Psychic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Demon blood is better than Ovaltine, vitamins, minerals. It makes you big and strong.”

I thought, after we closed the Gates of Hell, that it would stop. The slight pit in my stomach. It was always there, long after I got clean, and Famine made it worse. I used to be able to ignore it before that, push it to the back of my head. But after… Anything I drank had this weird ghost-taste of blood and sulphur. Even when I got back from the Cage. It’s why I don’t cook much - can’t taste it properly, so I always over-spice and then Dean complains.

I tried cutting myself, after Ruby, to see if my own blood was close enough. It didn’t have the same kick - I guess it was methadone to a demon’s heroin - but it satisfied the cravings. For a while. It was easy enough to hide from Dean. We were always bleeding then, as you might expect when the Apocalypse is going down. But it got more and more diluted, until it didn’t help at all. 

The thirst flared up again when Dean was doing the Trials. Like it knew that soon all the sources would be gone. If Dean hadn’t been so sick he would’ve noticed. As it was, I was mostly able to sit on it. I had other things to worry about, and I knew the end was in sight. If I’m honest, that was as much an incentive to do the Trials as saving the world was. I just wanted to be free of it, this niggling, gnawing, hollow feeling.  

But it hasn’t gone away. Hell’s closed, all the demons are stuck in the Pit, and somehow I’m still thirsty. I wish I knew what that meant. Maybe it was never Azazel’s blood that caused this. Maybe the darkness always came from me. Or, at best, he made me impure, and I took that and ran with it. I’ve done so much wrong and I can’t blame it all on external factors. It’s not like incest is exactly pure.

No. Love is the purest thing I have, and Dean’s so far from dark that he makes me lighter just by touching me. It’s why he can’t know. He deserves better than me but I’ll be the best I can. I can’t exactly get a fix these days, anyway. All the dealers are downstairs. So telling him that I can still feel the pull of their blood, still feel the curl of power like smoke in my marrow, would only worry him for nothing. 

I’ve lived with this for years. I can live with it for a few more.


	3. The Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "These make me very happy."

I always believed that angels could not become addicted to substances, in the way mortals do. Even when Famine’s presence infected me with a hunger for burgers, I was certain the cravings came from my vessel. In hindsight, the fallacy of that belief was obvious. Jimmy’s desires, even heightened by the Horseman, should have had no greater effect on me than at any other time. Instead I ended up kneeling on the floor over a trough of raw mince, unable to tear my focus away from it to help as Dean was beaten by demons.

But the belief persisted until Jimmy’s death. I pulled Sam’s body out of the Cage - a gruelling mission, the audacity of which now astonishes me - and left him outside Lisa Braeden’s house. Then, feeling tired, I went to a Biggerson’s to recuperate. I did not realise what I had done until the server deposited the plate on the table in front of me. 

The vessel was now mine alone. I did not need to eat. I did not need anything. Yet my first instinct, when seeking rest, was to order a burger. That instinct has not since deserted me. I ignore it much of the time, but I must confess that it worries me. I am an angel of the Lord - I should want nothing. Is this another step on the road to falling? Lucifer was a being of desire, after all. 

The first sin is hubris, pride. Holding oneself out of the proper position before God, questioning His purpose. Questioning our orders. Thinking we… I… could do better.

The second sin is wrath, and I will admit that I have experienced uncontrollable feelings of violent anger. Particularly towards Naomi.

The third sin is envy. I had not thought my appreciation of mortal free will and intensity of experience qualified as envy, but perhaps that is a wilful ignorance. 

The fourth sin is gluttony. Am I halfway to falling already?

I must set a guard within myself against greed, lust and sloth. I cannot imagine that any of them might become an issue, but I once thought that of the others. The mortals have a saying about the road to Hell being paved with good intentions and, whilst this is now a moot point, it is true that every time I have tried to do the right thing great harm has come of it. But if one does not try to do the right thing, what should one do? 

This is so difficult, sometimes. I tried to talk to Dean about it, but he laughed and told me that eating a burger was not a sin. Is he qualified to judge, now that he has undertaken the Trials? I am not certain. I wish there was someone I could ask. Perhaps Metatron might know. From Sam’s account, he has spent many centuries living amongst humans and might have a finer grasp of the subtleties. 

The trouble is that, since I mentioned it to Dean, he has taken to making me burgers on a regular basis. It would be impolite to reject his efforts. And he is a very good cook.


	4. The Vampire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I drink blood, not people."

Ain’t no secret what I need to get by, chief. I wish I could tell you I don’t like the taste, but that’d be a lie. I don’t like that I like the taste, is all the defence I got. That and I never asked for it. It was forced on me. But them's the excuses of a child. I will take responsibility for my actions.

What most people forget, o’ course, is that it ain’t about the blood. Sure, that's what keeps us alive, but the high comes from the hunt. Holding the balance of life and death in your hands, that’s a powerful strong feeling. It’s a hunger, and every politician knows it too. But generally speaking, they don’t got pointy teeth to let folks know what they’re hungering for.

I been on the wagon a long time now. Still feel it, every damn day, but I ain’t about to let a little thing like undeath beat me. Not again. I could go back to Purgatory, where everybody’s a monster and I don’t need to hold back. It’s all kinds of tempting. But that counts as surrender and I never was the kind to back down easy. Certainly not when up against myself.

‘Sides, I got me a substitute now. Hunting for bad guys ain’t quite the same as hunting for prey, but it scratches the itch. The Winchesters have given me a chance to make up for some of the evil I done into the bargain. I reckon Sam wanted me in easy reach also, in case he decided I did need killing after all. Friends close, and so on. He’s a practical man.

What they didn’t offer, on account of they didn’t know, was something I was needed for. To be needed, well, that fills a hole I didn’t think I had. But these boys surely do. Lord knows how many chunks they’ve torn outta each other and their own selves in the past. A vampire, turned peacekeeper. Makes you think, don’t it? I guess, with the skills they got, anyone below their fighting weight wouldn’t be listened to.

‘Course, there’s a whole ‘nother set of instincts that came as part of the fang-tastic package, and that’s nesting. Build a safe place, become an alpha, make a new family. Well, this bunker’s about as safe as you’re gonna get, and the people in it - the people I call ‘brother’ - listen to me. I ain’t saying I’m in charge but sometimes I could be. When that happens, my teeth start to tingle like I need to bite someone. They trust me. I could turn ‘em all in their sleep. It'd be the strongest damn nest I ever heard of. A part of me wants to. The part that loves to make the prey run, and to feel a racing pulse under my thumb.

Being a vampire ain’t hardly about blood, in the end. It’s about power, which is a hunger that goes all the way down. And I will not let it beat me.


	5. The Prophet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The blue ones are for the headaches, and the greens are for pep. Don't O.D.”

It isn’t my fault. I was in advanced placement. I was going to college. I gave cello recitals at school concerts, for fuck’s sake. Then someone,  _ Dean _ , cracked open the first tablet and I got tapped. So, really, it’s his fault. 

The last two years of my life have been a nightmare. I’m basically a mobile prisoner for whoever’s managed to kidnap me this time. I’ve been tortured, lost my mom, lost my girlfriend, and started getting regular migraines. So yeah, I take stuff to help. Bite me.

The Winchesters say they’re just keeping me safe but I’m as much a prisoner here as anywhere. Sam promised that it would all be over once the Trials were done, that I could go home and try to pick up the pieces. Turns out that was a lie. Castiel hit me with the whole ‘you’re a prophet of the Lord, always and forever’ spiel when I brought it up. Fucking angels.

Oh yeah, and I was totally clean until Dean brought me those pep pills. I mean, I hadn’t taken a shower in days and I was basically running on coffee, but I could cope with that. It’s pretty much how I imagined my finals would go, anyway. Then he drops this massive bottle of pep pills on the desk and tells me to ‘play through the pain’. Asshole. But I was still buying into Sam’s whole ‘finish this and go home’ dream so I did. And you know what? Those pills made me feel freaking awesome. I was still wired and jumping at shadows and so tired my joints hurt, but it didn’t matter. So I finished them. Then I tried to order another bottle online, and found something better instead. Cost a bit more but that doesn’t matter because if Dean ‘what’s a Twitter’ Winchester can manage a bit of credit card fraud then obviously it’s not a problem for me. He maybe showed me the basics but I turned it into a thing of beauty.

It always comes back to Dean. He found the first tablet, he showed me how to steal, he got me hooked on pep-up potions, and then he left me alone on that rust-bucket to be kidnapped by the King of Hell  _ again _ . Even though I told him Crowley was close. I’m pretty sure that, if he caught me doing lines, he’d kick my ass too, the hypocrite. He's screwing his brother, it’s not like he’s a poster boy for wholesome living.

At least I’ve got a lock on my bedroom door now. You’d think there’d be some security inside the bunker but, for a top secret society, the Men of Letters were really bad at internal perimeters. I had to buy a lock and put it on myself. Not that I’d put it past anyone here to go through my stuff if they felt like it. Don’t think they’d check inside my mattress, though.

I was going to quit snorting, once the Trials were over. No more translating, right? Wrong. Apparently there’s a whole tablet on angels somewhere out there - Crowley had it last, Cas says, so fuck knows where it is now - and Dean’s talking about tracking it down to take on Heaven next. So that’s a whole new round of exciting headaches and visions coming my way. Awesome. 

I just want my mom back. 

**Author's Note:**

> Please consider leaving kudos. It makes writers happy. :-)


End file.
